Images of Elizabeth
by elag
Summary: Darcy from after Hunsford until the end of Pride and Prejudice. An exercise in writing in the second person.
1. Chapter 1

_This story is written in the second person - something that is rarely done, and far more difficult than I expected. I am not sure if it is really working, so am looking forward to your feedback. The story__ largely follows canon events from after the Hunsford proposal to the end of P&P, but I may take some liberties with the sequence of events at Pemberley. __I am posting this here to celebrate the publication of my latest book, __**Suddenly Betrothed**__, which is available on Kindle and Kobo under the author name of Margaret Gale. So here we go! elag_

**Chapter One**

That was the last time you saw her – a memory carefully wrapped in silk, tied with ribbon and stored in the furthermost depths of your mind, only to be taken out on special occasions. She had been walking away from you, her stiff gait revealing her irritation at your presumption: you had interrupted her walk and demanded she accept your letter.

She had silently taken it from your hand, turned and stalked away – too genteel to express her displeasure in words, but making it crystal clear nonetheless. Her hair shone in the bright morning light, and though you could no longer see her face, you knew her eyes were glowing with that same fierce determination that had scorched you the evening before.

She was magnificent, and entirely beyond your reach.

That was the last time you saw her.

Now, all that is left is to wonder: had she read your explanation? Had she believed any of it? Had she at least learned to distrust Wickham, even if she still held _you_ in contempt?

There was, of course, no way to know. You could hardly impose yourself on her any further. What would you say? "Do you understand, now? Do you forgive me? Can you love me?" It was impossible.

And so you are left with that last sight of her – a moment shot through with grief and loss. You know you should leave the memory alone so it can wither and fade. No good can come from taking it out so often, turning it over in your mind's eye until the rough edges are gone and all that is left is a polished image of beauty, like a rounded river stone glistening in the brook. Yet it is irresistible. You spend hours –at your desk, in bed, gazing out of windows – indulging your longing for her. Remembering.

Almost daily you chastise yourself and decide to make a clean break. She is now forever beyond your reach, and it is mawkish to wallow in the pain of your loss. "She is not the only woman in the world," you tell yourself. "Go out. Socialise. Find another worthy of your hand."

And you try. You really do try.

Yet somehow she keeps defying your rules, creeping out of her hiding place and surprising you at the most unexpected moments, sometimes even in mid-conversation. Only yesterday you let your thoughts wander back to that clearing at Rosings Park while your cousin was regaling you with his latest exploits at the card table. It had been excruciatingly embarrassing to endure his jibes for your inattentiveness, unable to account for what had so distracted you.

Yet, for all that, it is an addiction you cannot truly repent. The only scraps of joy left in your life are those moments you can imagine yourself back in her presence. Reality is too cruel to bear without the leavening of these temporary delusions. So, again and again, you drift back to that last vision of such unattainable loveliness: for all the pain of the memory, it is, after all, your last memory of _her_, and despite everything, it still has the power to bring you to your knees with longing.

But it makes you poor company. Until you have managed to conquer the worst of your bouts of self-pity and started to live for the future again, you are not even fit for polite society. People have begun to comment that your mind wanders, that you are no longer so sharp as you had been, that you are growing old before your time. A retreat to Pemberley is necessary not only to find some privacy to nurse your broken heart, but to avoid the unforgiving scrutiny of the _ton_ until you can once more be a credit to the Darcy name.

You had long since made an arrangement with Bingley, inviting him and his sisters to visit Pemberley in the summer. What irony that when you dashed off the invitation you had been warmed by a smug certainty that by summer you would have a wife by your side to welcome them to Pemberley. Instead, you had only regret and memories. But you could hardly retract the invitation now. You would accompany Bingley and his horrible sisters north to your estate, bear with a week or two of their presence, and then, at last, it would just be you and Georgiana.

Yes, that is what you need: the tranquillity of your family seat; the everyday distractions of estate management; the beauty of the gardens and woods; the undemanding company of your young sister and her companion. It would be a balm to your injured spirit.

Of course, you would have to avoid envisioning Elizabeth there. It would not do to see her wraith in every room and corridor, hear her laughter curling through the hedge maze, trace her imagined footsteps through the forest groves. No, you would have to be disciplined. You would banish the scent of lavender from the house. You would discretely remove her favourite pieces from among Georgiana's piano music. No ginger biscuits would be served. You _could_ conquer this. You _would_ conquer this.

Two days in a carriage with Caroline Bingley were two days more than any sane man should be expected to bear. You had persevered for Georgiana's sake – you did not want to abandon your sweet sister to that harpy's undivided attention – but your patience had run out. Miss Bingley's presence was cloying: her perfume was too sweet and too strong – it permeated the carriage, stifling all who travelled within; her voice (at least in your presence) was girlishly high-pitched; her eyelashes were in a constant flurry of batting in your direction; and if her neckline got any lower, her décolletage would bound free the next time the carriage hit a rut. Her every attempt at wit, delivered with that unique and distasteful combination of condescension towards Georgie and flirtation towards you, could only serve to remind you of the calibre of the other woman – the one you had lost.

Enough is enough. At breakfast on the second day, you pretend to have received some urgent correspondence from your steward, make perfunctory apologies to Bingley and his sisters, a more heartfelt apology to Georgiana, and set off ahead of the party.

It is more than a literal breath of fresh air to be free of that carriage. Astride a fresh mount, with the breeze in your face, you enjoy the simple beauty of the Derbyshire countryside in summer. Drystone fences set off the verdant fields dotted with yellow buttercups, white sheep and fat cattle.

How Elizabeth would have enjoyed the sight!

Calling your wandering thoughts sternly back into order, you remind yourself for the thousandth time not to think of her. You resolutely turn your attention to enumerating the tasks that await you at home – tasks that would be so much easier if she were by your side…

No. It would not do. You had come home to cure yourself of your obsession, not to indulge it further. God had given you free will. You would prove yourself worthy of it. You would rid yourself of Elizabeth Bennet if it was the last thing you did.

The long miles roll away beneath your horse's hooves, and for a while you manage to concentrate on other things: there would be a pile of correspondence awaiting you at Pemberley – letters of business, long neglected message from your uncle and cousins, invitations to social events you have no desire to attend. You will need to spend several days closeted in your study, working through the backlog. You smile at the memory of Bingley teasing you about your slow and methodical approach to letter writing. _She_ had smiled too, when Bingley twitted you about searching for words of four syllables. But of course, the only letter written by you she could ever have seen had been written in a flood of emotion. There had been no time for erudition, only a need to commit your explanations to writing and deliver the resulting missive as soon as possible.

You wonder if she read your letter. Might she by now think better of you? Might she …

You pull your wandering thoughts back to the road ahead. It's a struggle, but one you are determined to win. You WILL forget her.

© 2019 _elag_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The outskirts of Pemberley grounds fill you with a fresh optimism: This is your place in the world. This is where you can be yourself again. This is home. Having ridden sedately thus far to avoid overtaxing your mount, you are close enough now that you can indulge in a gallop. Urging the horse into a run, you leave the driveway and set off across country, traversing paddocks and jumping fences. At this speed your attention is needed to keep yourself and your mount safe. It is such a relief to be focussed on the horse's gait, on the landscape rushing by, on the best place to cross a stream and the fastest route to the stables. To put other things from your mind.

John Smithers, one of your grooms, is crossing a field ahead of you. He stops to watch you pass, and doffs his cloth cap respectfully. Instead of simply passing him by, you pull up and dismount, asking, "How do you do? John?" A flicker of surprise crosses his face before he schools it to a pleasant smile. Is he surprised to be addressed by the master with something other than a command? Elizabeth Bennet had chastised you for being haughty towards those you felt were below you. At the time, you put it down to her misconstruing your shyness in company, but now you wondered. Did even your own staff think you disdained them? The young man made some neutral reply – that he was well, and thank you kindly for asking.

It had been a long ride: you are tired and dusty and looking forward to a long soak to ease your muscles and wash away the evidence of the road. It would be easy enough to return one polite nothing for another, and to be on your way. Certainly, John Smithers would expect no more. But should you not expect more of yourself? Should you not show a real interest in the lives of those who worked for you?

You hand the reins of your sweating horse to the groom and ask him to deliver the animal to the stables and to give her extra oats: "She has ridden far and hard today and has earned a bit of pampering." John nods his understanding, and turns to walk her away. You surprise him again by falling into step at his side and asking after the health of his mother, who used to work in the Pemberley kitchens before a palsy made her unable to perform her duties and she retired to live with her son and daughter-in-law. John was obviously surprised by this inquiry – less careful to conceal his raised eyebrows – but if you did not miss your guess, also pleased. He answered readily enough, that old Mrs Smithers was still enjoying as good health as could be expected for her age (although she had suffered a worrying cough this last winter), and that she was a great help with the toddlers now that John's wife, Mary, had returned to her duties in the laundry.

You knew, of course, that the various Smithers worked in your service. But you could not recall ever having considered them as a family before. Did the laundry work suit a young mother? Ought he to ask Mrs Reynolds to think about other duties for Mary Smithers? Or, with a grandmother at home to care for the little ones, was she happy in her current position? You did not know, but suddenly saw the carelessness of never wondering. How many people are dependent on you to be a good master, yet how can you really be a good master when you know so little of their lives? Parting ways with John Smithers as the path to the stables leads him away from your route towards the front door of the big house, you send your greetings to old Mrs Smithers, and vow to pay more attention in future to the welfare of those under your patronage.

You are hot now, and thinking of nothing but sinking into a warm bath. You strip off your woollen riding coat and sling it across your arm. With your free hand, you loosen your cravat then run your hand through your hair, brushing it back from your forehead. Wearily, you walk the gravel path that rounds the formal gardens and brings you to the small lawn before the house. Only a little further and you will be able to rest.

You are not really paying attention to where you are going – you know these grounds so well that you could walk them blindfolded – so you are several paces beyond the possibility of retreat before you realise there are visitors wandering the front lawn. You slow your stride, not much inclined to socialise with strangers but too bound by the rules of courtesy to ignore them completely.

And then the young lady standing closest turns and sees you.

And you see her.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet is standing not ten feet away from you.

You are beset by a thousand feelings all at once. Your heart is racing. You feel your face blanch and then burn red. You are overwhelmed with joy, with fear, with embarrassment, with shyness, and yes, with lust. Elizabeth Bennet is here at Pemberley: no wraith conjured from memory this – she is as real as the grass she stands on.

She is staring at you, no doubt as dumbfounded as you are. It is the first time you have ever seen her lost for words; even at that worst moment, after your awful, condescending marriage proposal, she had been quick to speak her mind. Her silence now serves to silence you too. It is as though you have both stepped out of the ordinary world to some other place where you can meet as innocent strangers, free from your past mistakes. Innocent, but far from indifferent.

Then she speaks. "Mr Darcy!" It is not much, but it breaks the spell, and you are cast back into reality. Elizabeth Bennet really is here, at Pemberley, with your name on her lips! You shake your head a little to help gather your wits, but notice that the movement distresses her: she thinks you are shaking your head in disapproval of her!

Is she as embarrassed as you? Perhaps even more so. After all, you are at least in your proper place, while she must feel an interloper. You are the host here: it is your responsibility to put her at her ease. You could, of course, blurt out that she is _always_ welcome at Pemberley, for it should be her home if only … but that would rightly scare her away, and that is the last thing you want to do. You want to show her that you have tended to her reprimands – that you are a better man than you were when she rejected you. Nothing more than that, surely: if only you could ensure she thought a little better of you, it would be a worthy achievement.

Somehow you manage to return her greeting. You even muster a few questions about the health of her family, though you would be in trouble if you had to account for her answers, since you are still distressingly affected by her presence: the pounding of blood through your veins makes it difficult to concentrate on her words, and the pleasure of resting your gaze on her beloved features overwhelms your capacity to think of anything else.

Three times she averts her eyes from you with a becoming blush before you recall that you are in your shirtsleeves, your neck exposed to view, and altogether too dirty and dishevelled for polite company. In your blundering conversation, you are almost sure you mentioned that you had just arrived from town. But a good excuse for appearing like this is hardly a good excuse for remaining so. Struggling to prevent your own visage blushing, you quickly beg her pardon and rush into the house to clean yourself up.

On the way in the front door, you speak quickly with a footman, ensuring the message is passed on that Miss Bennet's party is to be given the most extensive tour of the gardens possible, but that whatever else happens, they must not be allowed to leave before you return to speak with them. If such directions give rise to speculation, so be it. You will _not_ risk missing the chance to spend more time in her company.

© 2019 _elag_


	3. Chapter 3

**_Author's note: _**Wow! So many thoughtful reviews. Thank you all. I won't try to respond to each reviewer individually, but will address some of the main questions and comments in these author notes as I go along.

I have chosen second person for this story as a deliberate writing exercise, so won't be changing that decision now. I have challenged myself to sustain a second person narrative for more than a few chapters. My storyboard runs for about 15 or 16 short chapters and I aim to be posting one or two a day.

Second person is almost never used outside poetry or stories based on an exchange of letters. I have only undertaken it this time as a way to exercise my writing chops – a discipline to make me work a bit harder. I really appreciate the feedback, as it feels quite strange to write this way and it is even more difficult to guess how it might feel to a reader.

I have found the choice of second person drives me to writing in the present tense as well, so that's another quirk of this story. There is a lot of introspection, but yes, there will be some dialogue, too, as the story progresses.

The narrator's voice in this work is the same disembodied narrator you would expect in a standard third person narrative. There is no hidden "second person" waiting to reveal themselves. It is just a different way of telling the tale.

It certainly is not my usual style. (Check out my other stories **_Darcy after the proposal_**, the opening chapters of **_Encounter at Pemberley_** and even **_Moments in Time_** to see similar introspection rendered in the third person.)

Here we go with …

**Chapter 3**

From there, it is all running and shouting and imperious demands. There is no time for a bath now – you make do with a basin of cold water and a soapy cloth, much to your man's dismay, then allow him to dress you in clean, pressed clothes and to tie a fresh cravat. You even manage to sit still for nearly thirty seconds whilst he attempts to bring your hair into some sort of order. But eventually you wave him away. You will run the risk of a lock or two of hair being out of place, rather than the risk of being too late to speak to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Faster than you have ever been washed and dressed before, you are on your way back into the gardens, looking for the touring party.

Fast, you may have been. But it seems your staff have been even faster to spread the word that the master is behaving oddly because of a visiting young lady. They are not deficient in imagination, having waited a long time for any sign of their master settling down to produce an heir. You might tell yourself you hope for nothing more than to improve Miss Elizabeth's opinion of you, but it is clear from the broad smiles, winks and eager directions as to which way the young lady's party walked, that your staff's collective imagination has leapt from acquaintance to friendship, from friendship to courtship, and from courtship to marriage with all the alacrity of people anxious to see the succession secured. You roll your eyes at the third person to drop a hint as they point the way, but in truth, you only wish that this time you _could_ fulfil their expectations. It is not half an hour since you first saw her on the front lawn, and already your modest ambition to show her that you have heeded her rebukes seems insufficient. Already, you dare to hope for more.

But first, the lady. She had been polite when you spoke with her, but was clearly more embarrassed than anything else. How could it be otherwise after the way you parted in Hunsford? And then for her to be discovered as a tourist wandering the estate of a man whose hand in marriage she had so roundly refused. She could not know that you do not resent her presence. She had felt it acutely, and your poor attempts at conversation had done little to ease the situation.

It would not do. You must put her at ease, not compound her embarrassment! You need to plan your next words before her very presence strikes you dumb again. What could you say or do to make her feel welcome?

Well, you could treat her companions with respect for a start. You should have asked for an introduction earlier, but had barely even registered their existence, so consumed had your attention been by Elizabeth.

So: request an introduction and show them courtesy. That was simple enough. But then what? What could you have to say to complete strangers that would not sound stiff or condescending?

You recall her chastisement at Rosings Park: you are a man of sense and education who has lived in the world. You have no excuse for quailing at the thought of conversing with strangers. You can do this. You must set your nerves aside and show her you have taken her words to heart.

You must put her comfort ahead of your own.

With that thought you find the calm you need. And just in time, for here they come, around the bend where the path follows the stream on its gentle meander through your grounds. You manage a creditable bow and greet her politely, without the stumbling tension of your earlier attempt. She tries to apologise again for intruding, but you assure her she is welcome, and ask her to introduce her friends.

And there it is – that sparkle in her eye. She finds some humour in the introduction, which piques your curiosity. Ah, as she expands on the introduction you begin to understand: It is the famous relatives from _Cheapside_ – the very ones that Miss Bingley made such a point of scorning when you were all at Netherfield Park. Well, Mr Gardiner might be in trade, but he and his wife are perfectly elegant and genteel in their manner. After all your anxious worrying, you discover that the Gardiners are remarkably easy to talk to.

You see from what you hope are sly glances at their niece that she is both surprised and pleased by the courtesy you are showing to her relatives. It is almost overwhelmingly tempting to offer her your arm, but surely it is too early to press her for so much intimacy. Instead, you turn to walk beside Mr Gardiner and discover the man has a passion for angling. You converse readily enough about trout and perch and what sort of tackle he favours in his sport. Your gardener reminds you of an interesting water plant that grows along this stretch of the stream, and you direct Mr Gardiner off the path where you approach the edge of the water and point the curiosity out.

When you return, Mrs Gardiner claims her husband's arm and you are free to walk with Miss Elizabeth at last without slighting her relatives. For a few moments, you simply revel in the sublime feeling of having her by your side, here, at Pemberley. But after all, you must have _some_ conversation: even a little will do. Smiling at the memory of her tease at the Netherfield Park ball last November, you tell her that Bingley and his sisters will be joining you on the morrow.

Her acknowledgement of the news is muted, perhaps sad. Belatedly, you recall the last time Mr Bingley's name was mentioned between you – when you confessed to foolishly – and arrogantly – separating your friend from her sister. How stupid to speak of him again as though he were an indifferent acquaintance! You rush to change the topic, at least a little, by explaining that your sister is travelling with the Bingleys, and you ask permission to introduce Georgiana to Elizabeth.

You hold your breath waiting for her answer – it is no small thing for a gentleman to introduce a young lady to a sister who is not yet out. Surely she must understand the import of such a request? And clearly she does, for she colours and smiles a little, before quietly assuring you she would be pleased to make Georgiana's acquaintance. Satisfied with the fact that she has not disdained meeting Georgie – you never expected her to be so cruel as to blame your sister for her foolishness of the year prior, but you _had_ worried that she would not want any closer connection with _you _– you walk quietly at her side, unsure what to speak of next.

Luckily, Elizabeth Bennet is more skilled than you at conversation, and she mentions again that she has been travelling. You eagerly accept her lead, and the remainder of your stroll is spent in discussing the places she has seen on her journey. Derbyshire is a subject you are able to converse on with unforced enthusiasm: long familiarity with sights and locations she has only recently seen for the first time giving you much to say. You see familiar places afresh through her observations and add a morsel or two of history or personal story to the facts she has gleaned through her guide book. Her particular delight with Dovedale reminds you how much she enjoys nature, and what a fine walker she is. You are distracted a moment by the thought of walking with her through the stand of forest on the far side of the lake, where you might steer her out of view of the house and steal a … but you shake yourself from such a pleasant, though unlikely, daydream and return your attention to the lady at your side, determined not to waste a moment of this precious opportunity. Fantasies can wait.

When your steps have led you both back to the house, you search for any way to prolong this idyll. Will Miss Elizabeth and her party not come in for some refreshments before they leave? You would be delighted to entertain them for the afternoon.

Miss Elizabeth looks a little confused by your attention, though not entirely disinclined to accept. But Mrs Gardiner does not share her niece's vigorous constitution. She begs off coming into the house for tea as she has an engagement that evening and needs to return to the inn to rest after even the little exercise involved in touring Pemberley's public rooms and main gardens. If you had not already ascertained that her party were staying in Lambton for a few days yet, you could not have borne parting with Elizabeth. As it is, you stand and watch until her uncle's barouche disappears from view.

© 2019 _elag_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Your aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh is fond of saying "I couldn't begin to guess what is going through your mind." (No-one took her seriously in these pronouncements, of course, since she would inevitably proceed to declare her absolute certainty as to precisely what was going through the mind of the victim of her inquisition, to explain in excruciating detail why such thoughts were wrong, and to instruct on what more appropriate thoughts ought to replace them. In this way, Lady Catherine fulfilled her obligations as a member of the minor nobility to enlighten those under her sphere of influence. If they did not appreciate her condescension, she declared that was merely a mark of their inferiority of mind and breeding. The Lady's celebrated frankness meant that no-one was ever left in any doubt as to what was going through _her_ mind.)

Loath as you are to be reminded of your aunt, or of that clearing at her estate, Rosings Park, where you last saw Elizabeth Bennet, Lady Catherine's catchcry plays again and again through your thoughts: "I couldn't begin to guess what is going through her mind." If your aunt knew that your curiosity was bent on the mysterious thoughts of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, she would be most seriously displeased. She had on first acquaintance dismissed Elizabeth as an impertinent chit of little breeding and no education, who gave her opinion far too decidedly for one her age. If she knew you thought on that self-same 'chit' as the most beautiful and intelligent woman of your acquaintance, your aunt would waste no time in travelling to Pemberley to explain to you, in the clearest possible terms, how mistaken you were. _That_ was a conversation you had no appetite for.

But Elizabeth (_Miss_ Elizabeth, you remind yourself) - what _was_ she thinking? You truly could not begin to guess. Did her shy smiles and blushes mean she has begun to change her opinion of you, or only that she was embarrassed by the circumstance of meeting you again? Was she perhaps confident that the force of her refusal at Hunsford meant she was now safe from any further overtures from you, enabling her to appear more comfortable in your presence? Or had she read your letter and learned to think less harshly of your past actions?

Oh, if only you could read her mind! What you would give to hear her honest opinion of you now. Not that you would expect her to lie to you – after the manner in which she had rejected your proposal, you knew her to be capable of frankness, and you had never known her to deliberately mislead. But you know your own failings in attempting to understand her feelings. Without breaching all propriety and asking her outright, you have no faith in your capacity to discern her true attitude to you.

Perhaps it would be best not to press her too fast, in any case. A civil conversation about the sights of Derbyshire was far more than you might have expected, after all. And she _had_ agreed to be introduced to Georgiana. That must mean she is not _absolutely_ determined to hate you. However badly you conducted yourself in the past, it seems she is willing to give you another chance. You must not waste it, either by rushing to another proposal before she is ready to hear it, or by moving too slowly. You must take the chance to let her see that your feelings for her have not faded with time.

Your stride falters and you find yourself standing stock still in the hallway leading to your study. _Another proposal?_ Realisation breaks over you in a wave both frightening and exhilarating. You still love Elizabeth Bennet – that in itself is no new idea – but you now realise you will let nothing stop you from trying again to win her hand. That you are willing – nay, _determined_ – to lay your heart open to her despite her earlier refusal is indeed a new idea. Resignation to your loss will no longer do. There is no excuse for living in regret while there remains the smallest chance to gain true happiness. Faint heart never won fair lady.

You start walking again, with a firm determination. Your path is set: although you are not sure quite how to go about it: your position as one of the most eligible bachelors in England means you have always been the quarry and never the hunter in the marriage mart, you will simply have to learn new skills: how to woo a lady.

Reaching your desk, you start to lay your plans. You can rely on your senior staff to support your cause. You hope for Georgiana's support, too, but are not sure how to broach the subject with her. Perhaps just introduce her to Elizabeth, and then decide how much to tell her once you see whether or not she likes your beloved? (You pause for a moment to savour that phrase – your beloved. How good it sounds.) The Bingleys will be a complication: Bingley himself could be helpful – his cheerful personality could not but put Elizabeth at her ease – but those sisters of his must be kept in ignorance as far as possible. As soon as Caroline Bingley sees you wooing another woman, her claws will come out and she will cause whatever difficulties her fertile imagination can conjure.

Notes are quickly written and orders dispatched. You summon Mrs Reynolds to inform her of your hopes, making it clear you are by no means assured of success and will need as much assistance as the staff can muster without making Miss Elizabeth feel smothered. Despite attempts to remain dispassionate and businesslike, the broad smile on your housekeeper's face shows her pleasure at your news: this good woman who has been both friend and servant for as long as you can remember warmly assures you that Pemberley will make Miss Bennet and her family most welcome. She makes a few inquiries as to favourite foods and you surprise even yourself with your capacity, after all these months, to recall the particulars of dishes you have seen Elizabeth enjoy.

Soon, a flurry of activity is underway below stairs. Meals and pastries are cooked. Rooms are refreshed. Additional guest chambers are prepared for occupation, just in case. Flowers are brought in from the hothouses and displayed to advantage in the main rooms. Everything is ready to welcome the love of your life back to Pemberley.

© 2019 _elag_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Author's note:** kudos to Dw.618 for a review in the second person! Here's two chapters as a reward ;-)_

**Chapter 5**

And then the Bingleys and Georgiana arrive. You put on a calm face, performing your duties as host meticulously. You groan a little when Caroline Bingley preens at the sight of a large vase of red roses in the foyer. Trust Miss Bingley to leap to the wrong conclusion. You take extra care to treat her with distant civility, offering no compliments and avoiding her manoeuvres to position herself at your side. Georgiana watches all this with poorly-concealed amusement. After suffering a long carriage journey in Miss Bingley's company, you concede she has a right to enjoy the sight of someone else squirming under that lady's attentions. You surprise your sister, though, when you wink at her behind Miss Bingley's back: she didn't expect such good humour from you.

You settle your guests, knowing they will take an hour or two to refresh themselves after the dusty journey before rejoining you in the parlour. Two hours is time enough for a quick trip to Lambton to visit the Gardiners … but, no, they said they would be resting prior to other social engagements – they would not welcome visitors. Instead, you have to satisfy yourself with retiring to your own chambers and finally taking that bath you had no time for earlier – your long-suffering valet refreshes the water with little more than one roll of his eyes: if he shrugs, he waits until your back is turned before doing so.

This time, you endure his ministrations without complaint, and return to the parlour perfectly coiffed not ten minutes before Bingley and Georgiana arrive. It is small surprise that Bingley's sisters and Mr Hurst take longer to prepare themselves for the rigours of an evening among friends. Hurst, no doubt, is sleeping. Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley will be adorning themselves with enough lace and feathers to grace a night at the opera, and demanding their maids produce magnificent updos to emphasise their swan-like necks. Ha! You nearly choke on your wine at the thought. The only resemblance the sisters bear to swans is their beak-like noses and their small minds.

Both Georgiana and Bingley sport knowing looks. Clearly, they have noticed your changed demeanour and have drawn their own conclusions as to the cause. Unwilling to broach the true reason for your good humour when Caroline Bingley could enter the room at any time, you settle for raising your glass in a toast "to spending time among friends". Georgiana's smirk tells you in no uncertain terms that she will extract the full story from you later, but for now she allows Bingley to direct the conversation to the promise of sport on the morrow, a topic which you enter into with enthusiasm and which carries you through until Hurst and the other ladies arrive and the whole party moves into the dining room.

The dinner has been designed to meet the preferences of your guests rather than your own: an array of spicy ragouts, overdressed game birds and sickly sweet puddings, from amongst which you manage a reasonable meal of roast vegetables and a piece of pheasant breast. (Georgiana, at least, likes the sweet deserts and appears quite happy with her meal.) This is the price of hospitality – one which you have paid before for the sake of Bingley's friendship and one which you will no doubt pay many times again. But even to please your friend's sisters, you will not bow to the current fashion of an excess of removes – there are only three courses totalling 13 dishes before you nod to Georgiana that it is time for her to lead the ladies back to the parlour. She does so without protest, though you know it is a significant sacrifice on her part: more time in the exclusive company of Louisa Hurst and Caroline Bingley is far from the way she would prefer to spend her first evening at home.

What a kind sister she is, to give you a few minutes alone with the gentlemen. As you enjoy your port in the undemanding company of Bingley and Hurst, you remind yourself to give Georgiana a break from your guests at the first opportunity. No sooner has this thought crossed your mind than a plan for tomorrow morning is fixed: all that remains is to alert Georgiana without tipping off your guests.

Almost buoyantly, you lead the gentlemen into the parlour. Once again, Caroline Bingley is quick to misunderstand your smile. She flutters her eyelashes in your direction, doubtless thinking your happiness a symptom of returning to her company. The thought nearly makes you laugh, but you belatedly school your expression into impassivity before requesting that the ladies provide some musical entertainment. (You learned long ago to come prepared with such a request, else Miss Bingley would propose some more intimate, and if possible risqué, parlour game, during which she would beset you with intimations of her admiration for you, for your estate, and for your titled relatives. The woman is incorrigible.)

Georgiana shows her skills as a hostess: although she is far the best musician in the room and she has been eagerly eyeing the new pianoforte that you had organised to be waiting here at Pemberley for her return, she gracefully cedes precedence to her guests, inviting Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst to perform first. The sisters hasten to the instrument, and several polished performances follow: first an Italian love song, with Mrs Hurst at the keyboard and Miss Bingley singing and casting meaningful glances in your direction; then a piano duet performed with great speed to emphasise the ladies' technical proficiency; and finally a longer piece performed by Miss Bingley alone while her sister returns to sit by her slumbering husband. While you remain politely attentive throughout, you manage a little conversation with Georgiana during which you alert her both to your plans for the morning, and to the importance of keeping those plans from the other ladies.

That your sister is curious is evident. That she has no desire to share any confidences with her guests is equally plain. She as good as instructs you to visit her in her chambers once the others have retired: clearly you will have to answer some pointed questions before the evening is over. Once again you find yourself dangerously near smiling, delighted both by your sister's assertiveness and by the idea of telling her about Miss Bennet.

The rest of the evening is torture: you have to endure the insipidity of the Hursts, the fawning of Miss Bingley, and, yes, even the good humour of Charles Bingley, when all you really want to do is to sit quietly and dream about tomorrow. But at last it is over, and you accompany your guests upstairs, parting from them where their corridor begins and you continue to the family suites. It is not too late to call in on Georgiana, so you direct your feet to her door and knock gently.

"Well, brother, what is afoot?" she demands before the door is fully open. You glance guiltily back along the corridor, hoping that Miss Bingley is well out of earshot. There is no sign of that woman, but you step into Georgiana's sitting room and firmly close the door behind you before answering her. Her abigail is nowhere to be seen, so you have no excuse but to tell your little sister what she is itching to know.

You open your mouth to do so, but cannot find the right words to begin. How do you broach such a subject – such dreams and hopes – without sounding deranged? Georgiana has known you her whole life as a serious, cautious older brother. What will she think to see you lost to an ardent admiration? To make matters worse, she giggles at your silence and leads you to sit next to her on a comfortable settee before the fire. "Why, Fitzwilliam," she says mischievously, "I do believe you are blushing."

That is the limit. You will not sit here and be mocked by a girl little over half your age. You draw yourself up in your most haughty manner and give her a quelling look. It works somewhat, as she manages to stifle her giggles and make a pretence of sitting meekly. But you see the twinkle in her eye that betrays her mirth.

"Then your own mirth at the absurdity of the situation breaks through, and you direct a broad smile at your sister. "Georgie, I have the most surprising news," you begin.

© 2019 _elag_


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

And then it all tumbles out. You explain that the trip to Lambton on the morrow is for the sole purpose of visiting a Miss Elizabeth Bennet, that you want Georgiana to do all that she can to make Miss Elizabeth feel welcome at Pemberley, to invite her and her relatives to visit again, perhaps even to stay, if such an invitation can be managed within the bounds of the conversation. You impress upon her how much you hope she will like Miss Elizabeth, how you are sure she _will_ like her for Miss Elizabeth is everything kind and lovely, and how very much you want to make a good impression on the lady yourself.

Georgiana is a delightful interlocutor. She is disposed to think well of anyone who can inspire such happiness in her brother, and pleased to find that you are so very far from falling into the clutches of Mr Bingley's awful sister. She asks just such questions as allow you to dwell on your lady's good qualities, to recount your own mistakes and foolishness to the most forgiving of audiences, and to revisit the events of this morning in loving detail. She is left in no doubt as to your feelings towards the lady in question, and you do not hesitate to disclose to her your firm determination to win Miss Elizabeth's hand.

A small confusion arises, as Georgiana has some difficulty in imagining why any young lady would not immediately accept your suit, should you deign to offer it. You remind her of what you have said about your early rudeness towards Miss Elizabeth and her family – Georgiana had passed over these remarks during your first recitation, giving them little weight, but you enjoin her to consider whether she would be happy to be tied to a man who was so careless of her feelings – and add the argument you know will carry most weight with her in light of her own experience with a mercenary suitor: "… and I want to win her regard for me as a person, not simply have her accept me because of my wealth and connections." Georgiana is silent for a while, then asks, "How can you ever be sure of that?"

You take a deep breath, and tell her the worst – that you can be confident that if Miss Elizabeth ever accepts your hand it will not be motivated by mercenary ambitions because you have tested that question in practice: you have already proposed to the lady and been rejected out of hand. Georgiana gasps in shock, and takes your hand in hers. "Oh, how terrible! How you must have suffered!"

"It was painful at first. She taught me a harsh lesson indeed. But I had earned her scorn, and I honour her for the integrity she showed in refusing me. I have reason to hope that we are both improved in manners since that day, and I am determined to show her that I am no longer the arrogant man she then thought me. I love her, Georgie, and I will not rest until she is Mrs Darcy."

"Well then, brother, we should both to bed so that we can be well away before Miss Bingley rises on the morrow."

And with that, and a small hug, you leave your sister and retreat to your own chambers. You are still buzzing with too much excitement for sleep, so you sit before the fire for nearly three hours, indulging in those fantasies you had held at bay whilst in the lady's presence. It is very late before you finally go to bed, but you have left nothing to chance: your staff have strict instructions to wake you at your usual hour.

And they do. A moment of bleary-eyed confusion evaporates with recollection of what is before you today. You leap from bed and begin your ablutions with a simmering nervousness. By the time you have eaten a quick breakfast and ordered your phaeton readied, a burgeoning sense of hope is competing with a creeping dread. You are not a pious man, but a quick appeal to the Almighty escapes you, begging that nothing go amiss with your plans for the morning.

Georgiana joins you with a tremulous smile: her bravado of the evening before has faded as her native shyness is asserting itself. She remains determined to accompany you, but cannot disguise her nerves at the prospect of meeting several complete strangers. You offer what reassurance you can – reminding her that Miss Elizabeth is everything kind and lovely, and that you found the Gardiners to be very good sorts – but you know she will remain unsure of herself until the meeting is over.

You hand her into the phaeton and are about to climb up to the drivers' seat yourself when Charles Bingley bounces – positively bounces – down the stairs to ask where you are off to. You would prefer to have escaped without his notice, but you will not stoop to lying, and he has asked you a direct question.

And so you tell him. Not everything, of course, but that you are going into Lambton to visit Miss Elizabeth Bennet, who is visiting the area with her aunt and uncle. You see his eyes light up at the name and regret yet again your foolish interference in his life. When he expresses the wish to join the visit, you do not have the heart to refuse him. The phaeton does not have room for a third, but he agrees to follow on horseback just as soon as he can change into suitable attire. You give him directions to the inn, and then at last you and Georgiana are on your way.

The phaeton is new, the horses fresh and the road in good condition. But your sister sits beside you, and you are not given to taking risks with her safety: you restrain your urge to race the team, setting a pace brisk enough to cover the five miles to Lambton in a little under half an hour, but not so fast as to be foolhardy. It is an inordinately long time before you pull up outside the inn.

Bingley has not yet caught up with you, but you are not inclined to wait. You lead Georgiana up the stairs in the wake of one of the establishment's maids and try not to blush as your name is announced to the occupants of their first floor suite. Passing off your hat and cane to the maid, you step into the parlour and greet Elizabeth and her relatives courteously. True, you are nervous, but this time meeting her is no surprise, and you have a plan. It enables you to conduct yourself with reasonable composure as you introduce Georgiana and encourage a conversation between her and Elizabeth.

Little encouragement is needed, of course. You know enough of Miss Elizabeth's disposition that you could be sure she would do everything in her power to put your shy sister at her ease. And so it is. There is no judgement in her manner as she leads the conversation to music – a topic which she knows Georgiana to be knowledgeable about – and gently guides your sister to take a seat next to her on the settee before the fire. Elizabeth's charm and good manners quickly put Georgiana at her ease, and soon she is conversing with animation. You watch fondly, content for the moment to have Elizabeth's attention focussed on someone other than you. The sight of the two ladies you care most for in the world so comfortable in each other's company warms your heart and encourages your hopes. (You cannot help but compare the way Georgiana blossoms under Elizabeth's lively attention to the way she retreats in the face of Miss Bingley's condescension. Elizabeth Bennet will be good for more than one Darcy.)

After some time simply gazing fondly at the young ladies, you recall that there are others present. You exchange courteous nothings with Mr and Mrs Gardiner – the weather (mild), whether they have found Lambton much changed from Mrs Gardiner's younger days (apparently not – Mrs Gardiner has found it comfortingly familiar), what their plans are for sightseeing in the vicinity (not yet fixed), and so forth. They are indulgent toward your distraction, as they also are inclined to keep one eye on their niece and your sister chatting so amiably before the fireplace.

© 2019 _elag_


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note:** Several reviewers have asked whether I will be adding in some of Elizabeth's perspective. I'm afraid the answer is no, for three main reasons: first, the wonderful Jane Austen has given us easily the best rendition of Elizabeth's perspective of this part of the narrative, and it would be difficult to stick so closely to canon without merely repeating much of her text; second, writing this way is a real challenge - I am glad I have undertaken the exercise, but I don't want to significantly expand the scope of the task I have set myself; and third, it would be difficult both for the writer and the reader, I think, if the "you" of this story chopped and changed. But please keep the ideas coming!

**Chapter 7**

You are stood where you have a view out of the window, and it is not long before you see Bingley's arrival. Before he has handed off his horse and shed his outerwear at the inn door, you have tested his welcome and, assured that Miss Elizabeth would be happy to renew her acquaintance with your friend (despite his apparent abandonment of her sister the winter before), you go down to fetch him.

Bingley's nerves have him bouncing on the spot, and he is wringing his hands most uncharacteristically, so you take a few moments to calm him: "Don't worry, Charles, they will not eat you!"

He rolls his eyes and replies, "Well, perhaps they should! Has Miss Elizabeth said nothing of her sister? I recall Miss Elizabeth to have a hot temper when roused. Do you think she will not throw me out on my ear?" You sigh. If only you had seen Miss Elizabeth's character as clearly as Bingley apparently did – you had no idea of the anger you would rouse with your insulting proposal at Rosings, and no idea of the lady's capacity for throwing a gentleman out on his ear if her temper were roused! More fool you. But now was not the time for wallowing in old mistakes. Fate had gifted you with another chance, and you would learn from your past errors, not repeat them.

And your first priority at this moment is to calm Charles Bingley enough to get him up the stairs and into the Gardiners' rooms. "I have already told them you were coming, Charles. If you turn tail now, they will be insulted. You have no choice, old man, but to brave the lion's den. But when I left, Miss Elizabeth was far more agreeably engaged in discussing matters of great import with Georgiana than to have time for remembering old resentments."

With only one or two more paced circles, Bingley brings himself under better regulation, and you are able to show him upstairs. By the time you are stepping into the room to announce him, his innate optimism has resurfaced, and he is eager for the introductions to be over.

He cheerfully greets Mr and Mrs Gardiner before turning to Miss Elizabeth to quiz her about her sisters. Of course, there is only one sister he truly cares about, but he cannot be so direct as to name her. It is clear that Miss Elizabeth understands him, and she is kind enough not to toy with his feelings for too long before revealing the information he longs to hear: that Miss Jane Bennet is well, and recently returned to Longbourn: when the Gardiners called there to collect one niece for their holiday, they returned another to her home.

You watch with pleasure as Elizabeth's happy smile and laughing tones prove her delight in the obvious interest that Bingley is taking in her sister. At one point she glances at you, and gifts you such a look that you are breathless, caught in a moment of shared amusement at your friend's feeble efforts to disguise the true subject of his questions. She looks away after a moment, and you carefully add this to your store of memories of Elizabeth: how much better to remember this glance, full of affection and humour, than that last moment at Rosings!

Georgiana interrupts your reverie to whisper in your ear that she would like to invite the Gardiners and Miss Elizabeth to dine at Pemberley, but is not sure whether she has the courage to ask them: she has never taken on the public role of Mistress of Pemberley before. You give her hand a reassuring squeeze and encourage her to take the plunge: what better company to practice amongst than these genteel, amiable folk?

She cannot argue with that, and you watch with brotherly pride as your little sister gathers herself, takes a deep breath, and in slightly quavering tones, invites the company to dine on the morrow or the next day.

Mrs Gardiner, demonstrating both graciousness and compassion for the nervous young lady before her, quickly declares her gratitude for the condescension and accepts on behalf of the whole party for the morrow. Arrangements are quickly put in place, and then the half hour scope of a polite morning call is exhausted, and you reluctantly take your leave. As you rise from your parting bow, you see Elizabeth looking away in apparent confusion: you can only wonder at the cause, and hope that the prospect of visiting Pemberley again does not displease her. She seemed to get on so well with Georgiana, and her manner had been friendly towards you, as well. Perhaps she was just embarrassed again, but perhaps she was embarrassed by your attentions because she did not know how to politely reject them.

You conclude your visit more anxious than you began it.

Georgiana is the opposite. She had been a bundle of nerves before meeting three complete strangers, one of whom she particularly wanted to make a good impression on. But all the way home, she chatters happily. It had all gone so well: the Gardiners had been so kind and friendly, and Miss Elizabeth was wonderful. She talks on and on about how much she likes her new acquaintance, how she perfectly understands that you could fall in love with such a lady, and how she thinks Miss Elizabeth seemed favourably disposed towards you.

At that, your heart soars again, and you press your sister for details. Although she can offer little more than vague impressions – a covert glance here; a revealing question there – you cannot but cling to the hope that Georgiana's intuition is accurate. How very much you wish it is!

In any case, you will have another chance to win the lady's affections: her party is engaged to dine at Pemberley tomorrow and you are determined to show her the best of yourself. There is no time for wallowing in doubt. It is with a firm intention to embrace hope, bolstered by your sister's optimism, that you return to your ancestral home, where you are face the necessity of entertaining Bingley and his sisters. You and Bingley share a strong desire that his sisters learn nothing of Miss Bennet's presence in the neighbourhood – at least until it cannot be helped – and Georgiana takes little persuasion to join the conspiracy: she dislikes conversing with the Bingley sisters at the best of times and is confident that her usual reticence will enable her to avoid any mention of her new acquaintance.

You have barely crossed the threshold, however, before Caroline Bingley is badgering you, your sister and her own brother to find out what took you all from home so soon upon arriving. Before Bingley can do more than blush, and before you have gathered your wits to offer some doctored version of the truth, Georgiana surprises everyone by saying with a haughty pride, "Miss Bingley, I had need of my brother's counsel on a private matter, and your brother was kind enough to ride at a sufficient distance from our phaeton to ensure we could speak in confidence. It is a family matter of no interest to you, I am sure."

Georgiana sweeps past her interlocutor before Miss Bingley has a chance to recover from such a set-down at the hands of the girl she is used to thinking of as meek and malleable. You bow with perfunctory politeness and silently followed your sister into the house. Caroline turns to her brother ready to demand more detail, but meets such a severe glare from Charles that she is reminded of their location: it would not do to gossip about Darcy family business whilst standing about in his foyer in the presence of at least two footmen. She swallows her curiosity – for the moment.

You pause just out of view in order to be sure that Charles withstands his sister's interrogation, and now have a clear view of the calculating look that falls over her visage as soon as she turns her back on her brother: eyes narrowed and her lower lip caught between her teeth, it is abundantly clear that Miss Caroline Bingley feels herself entitled to know your dearest concerns. Well, she can join the queue: your Aunt Catherine at least has the claim of blood, and your cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam is your closest friend after Bingley. You have no intention of sharing your intentions with either of _them_, so Caroline Bingley can just go whistle, for all you care.

Satisfied with Bingley's steadfastness, you withdraw discretely into a side corridor to allow his busybody sisters to proceed into the morning parlour, and then make haste to your chambers to change for some sport. You send your man to alert Bingley and Hurst to your change of plans and thence to the kitchen to ask cook to rustle up a picnic basket. After that look on Miss Bingley's face, you are in no mood to face her across a dining table.

© 2019 _elag_


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's note:** It seems that some of your reviews are not being posted by the ff bots. I hope they will come through eventually, but in the meantime, please forgive me for not replying if you have asked a particular question. As I mentioned at the outset, I greatly appreciate all the warm encouragement and your constructive criticism and your ideas for where the story might go next. I do read every review, but don't plan to reply to reviews individually. If your review doesn't show up in the review list, please try again, or you can always pm me.

Here we go again ...

**Chapter 8**

Arrangements for an outing with the gentlemen made, you summon Georgiana to your study, where you apologise for once again abandoning her to the Bingley sisters and warmly compliment her on her quick thinking in the foyer. "It was a marvel to behold, Georgie," you say. "The harridan didn't know what to think or say. You were brilliant!"

Georgiana blushes prettily and disclaims any particular merit, then declares that she will need to spend the remainder of the morning in the music room practicing, as she has sadly neglected her music of late. This time, it is she who winks at you, and you laugh out loud in delight, before setting out to a remote trout stream. In this manner, much of the day is whiled away without need for either Darcy sibling to spend time in company with Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst.

The occupants of Pemberley gather for the evening repast – a grand affair, as befits the house (Everyone has dressed impeccably, although Miss Bingley's idea of fashion continues to confound you: if the whole of the ton is wearing bright orange and bedecked in so many feathers this season, it must be a garish sight indeed. If her intention is to catch your eye, she has succeeded, you suppose, but she has also succeeded in upsetting your digestion and making it impossible to relax in her company. Well, that last is all to the good: it is best never to forget her presence since if you let down your guard, she is as likely as not to try to stage a compromise.). Georgiana and Bingley maintain a cheerful conversation about her favourite walks and his favourite fishing spots at Pemberley. You remain mostly silent which surprises no one: you are not known for your loquacity, after all. Hurst and his wife are quietly focussed – the one on his food and the other on quietly jangling her bracelets. Miss Bingley occasionally ventures to join the conversation, but she is politely rebuffed at every attempt and eventually gives up, pouting rather sulkily throughout the last remove.

When you adjourn to the parlour again, she cheerfully proposes that a card table be set up. You bow gracefully: "If that is your wish, madam, it shall be so." Your staff are quick to oblige and the Hursts equally quick to assume their seats at the table. Miss Bingley attempt to inveigle you into taking the fourth seat as her partner. You cry off with the excuse of having some estate correspondence to review. Georgiana has already seated herself at the pianoforte, leaving Bingley to make up the card party. If he does shrug at the prospect, he is too polite to cause a fuss, and soon the whole company are settled to their various occupations.

Miss Bingley is no great card player, viewing the pastime more as an opportunity for display than as an end in itself. As a result, her capacity for conversation is hardly hampered by the scant attention she gives the game, and she offers several absurd compliments – on the evenness of your writing, on the important matters of business that must fall to you as master of so fine an estate as Pemberley, on the fine intellect required to handle the complexities of such correspondence – which you silently ignore. As your back is to the room while you sit at your writing desk, she does not see you roll your eyes at her foolish remarks. In truth, you are merely doodling on an old piece of blotting paper. You could not concentrate sufficiently to give your estate business the attention it deserves with such a running commentary to distract you, and in any case would much rather meditate on your expectation of seeing Miss Elizabeth on the morrow. It is a dull evening, but no duller than many you have spent there alone, and serves to emphasise the very great difference that a woman of intelligence and gentle humour can make to the enjoyment of an evening in company.

At last the day is over. You have kept Bingley from being alone with his inquisitive sister, and finish the day by inviting him to a game of billiards – an exclusively male undertaking that effectively closes the evening for the ladies. Hurst chooses to retire with his wife, while Georgiana escorts Miss Bingley to her bedchamber door before herself retiring for the night. You have a quiet word with the housekeeper to ensure footmen are stationed in the guest wing ready to intercept any night-time wanderings: you do not think even Caroline Bingley sunk so low as to attempt a bedroom compromise, but it is better to be safe than sorry. You are a little taken aback by the vigour with which Mrs Reynolds agrees to your suggestion: clearly she has even lower expectations of the young lady than you do.

Having slept so poorly the night before, you fully expect another fitful night of anxiety and expectation. But no sooner has your head hit the pillow than you fall into a deep and, so far as you remember the next morning, dreamless sleep. You wake refreshed and cheerful, impatient for this most important day.

You find Georgiana alone at the breakfast table, humming quietly as she refreshes her tea cup. Even for the chance of pestering you, it seems, Miss Bingley is not an early riser. You enjoy a peaceful breakfast, make an attempt at scanning the newspaper (although nothing there really catches your interest) and ask your sister at least three times whether everything is in readiness for the Gardiners and Miss Elizabeth to join them for dinner. She assures you that between herself and Mrs Reynolds, no detail has been overlooked, and eventually laughs at your nerves, effectively surprising you into comporting yourself as the master of the estate instead of as a giddy schoolboy.

You do not want Miss Bingley to have any advance notice of who will be joining you for dinner today, and do not entirely trust Bingley to resist her determined questioning about yesterday's outing. In order to keep the siblings apart for another hour, you take a deep breath for courage before proposing a stroll in the gardens to Caroline Bingley and her sister. The former accepts with alacrity, the latter with indifferent languor, and within half an hour they are both at the front door wearing flimsy pelisses designed more for fashion than for warmth, and carrying frilly parasols. It is a fine day out, and you need do nothing more than don your hat before escorting them outdoors.

You walk with your hands firmly clasped behind your back, so that neither lady can claim one of your arms, and stroll slowly towards the formal gardens. Miss Bingley is clearly confused. Yesterday she arrived at Pemberley to find the house festooned with roses, which she clearly presumed to be in welcome of her arrival. Yet for the remainder of the day you had not sought her out. You had disappeared into the village for some undisclosed reason and failed to defend her against your sister's impertinence. Now at last you had asked for her company, yet were still not making the overtures towards greater intimacy that she so clearly hoped for. She alternates between smiling winningly at you and, when she thinks you are not looking, frowning in concentration. She is missing key facts necessary to solve the puzzle of your behaviour, and you are not inclined to enlighten her.

As you walk, you cast about for any topic of conversation that does not invite either invective against those she disdains, or sycophantic praise of those she seeks to emulate. At last you think to ask after the health of her relatives in Scarborough. You have never met them, of course, but Bingley speaks fondly of them. You are destined to be disappointed, however: Miss Bingley does not welcome such a reminder of her close connections with trade, and after a quick acknowledgement that the last she had heard they were all in good health, she embarks on an extensive explanation that she has not seen them for some years, indeed cannot fathom why anyone should choose to live so far from London, and deploring their general lack of sophistication, unlike herself and dear Louisa who of course have benefitted from the best education and have the accomplishments necessary to flourish in the _Ton_. She takes your silence as agreement, and begins to wax lyrical on the subject, until even Louisa Hurst looks a little embarrassed at the extent of her sister's self-congratulation.

© 2019 _elag_


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

As for you, you have long since stopped listening. You pace steadily through neatly-tended garden beds, indifferent to their profusion of summer blooms and thrusting new growth. Your mind is more agreeably engaged with meditating on the very great pleasure that a pair of fine eyes in the face of a beautiful woman can bestow. At last you can think of Elizabeth Bennet without only seeing that moment … that terrible yet thrilling moment … when she had parted from you at Rosings Park. That memory is still clear and strong, but it is now crowded about with other images: moments of amusement, of embarrassment, of affection; moments which give you hope.

All these images run through your mind as you walk, and a small smile plays about your lips, much to the pleased surprise of Caroline Bingley, who of course assumes your smile is for her. You try to school your face back to its usual grim impassivity, but the damage is done. Oh well, you shrug, soon enough she will learn for herself the true cause of your present good cheer, and that should at last put a full stop to her delusions.

After a half hour, you deem you have fulfilled your duty as host and guide the ladies back indoors for some refreshments. Miss Bingley pleads exhaustion although you have done nothing more strenuous than stroll gently about for half an hour. It is all the fashion for young ladies to feign physical weakness, and Miss Bingley is nothing if not fashionable. She drapes herself ostentatiously at one end of a sofa, careful to leave room for a second in case you should choose to join her, and waits for the staff to serve her with tea and cake. You are forcibly reminded of the contrast with another young lady – one who revels in long walks and disdains any false show of weakness. You really must stop smiling in Caroline Bingley's presence!

"We will have company at dinner today," you announce into a moment of silence. You have the immediate attention of the ladies, who express an understandable desire to know who will be intruding on your peace so soon after your return to Pemberley. "An acquaintance of mine from London," you report, omitting to mention that the acquaintance was first formed the day before yesterday, "who is travelling in the district with his wife and niece."

"And might we know this acquaintance?" asks Caroline Bingley, alert to any opportunity to extent her connections among the ton.

"I do not believe you have met," is all you offer. It is an improper indulgence, you know, to so anticipate the look of shock on her face when the Gardiners and Miss Elizabeth walk in, but you are looking forward to it with almost boyish glee and cannot bring yourself to provide the advance warning that might have been the right thing to do.

Once they have retired, you instruct Mrs Reynolds to prepare the saloon for company. Its northern aspect renders it delightful for summer. Its windows opening to the ground admit a most refreshing view of the high woody hills behind the house, and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts which are scattered over the immediate lawn. You hope that Miss Elizabeth will enjoy the prospect.

Forewarned to expect company, Caroline and Louisa retire to dress for dinner with particular care. When they return, a little before the hour when your guests are due to arrive, they are adorned with sufficient lace and feathers to suit a salon at the town house of your aunt, Lady Matlock. It is a bit much for a dinner among friends at a country house, but you have learned to expect nothing less from Bingley's sisters: they will always prefer gaudy splendour to real elegance.

Bingley has made himself scarce for most of the morning, taking a long ride and then retiring to his rooms to attend to some correspondence. When he joins his sisters, Georgiana and Mr Hurst in the saloon, he is slightly subdued in manner. You quietly inquire as to his health, and he assures you he is perfectly well, only distracted by a serious matter he has been considering. It takes no great genius to discern the subject of his distraction: Miss Elizabeth's presence in the neighbourhood has raised in him again all his dearest hopes in relation to that lady's elder sister. You cannot blame him, for your own hopes have been similarly revived, and in his case at least they should be unalloyed by doubt as to his reception should he renew his attentions to the lady in question.

And then it is time. Your butler pauses significantly at the door to the saloon and announces in ringing tones: "Mr Gardiner, Mrs Gardiner and Miss Elizabeth Bennet."

You turn from your examination of the view from the window to greet them with a wide smile. "You are most welcome. How good to see you again so soon. I hope you have been enjoying your time in Lambton?"

Smiling kindly at your transparent enthusiasm, Mr Gardiner replies with easy good humour and Mrs Gardiner assures you that she is enjoying her visit immensely. Miss Elizabeth contents herself with a polite curtsey to you, and a gentle smile towards Georgiana.

You perform the introductions, presuming that Bingley's sisters and Hurst have not met the Gardiners before. This proves wrong, as Mrs Gardiner reminds them of their brief visit to Jane Bennet at the Gardiner residence the winter before. The sisters are discomfited by this, since the purpose of that visit had been to cut Miss Bennet's acquaintance and prevent her from renewing her acquaintance with their brother. Mrs Gardiner handles the conversation masterfully, and is soon satisfied in her own mind that Charles Bingley had no prior knowledge of his sisters' duplicity towards Jane. She treats them with cool civility and turns her attention to supporting the conversation between Georgiana and Elizabeth Bennet.

Much as it disappoints you to spend more time away from Miss Elizabeth, you invite Gardiner, Bingley and Hurst to accompany you on a short venture into the park to view one or two of your favourite fishing spots in anticipation of Mr Gardiner's promised fishing expedition tomorrow morning. An enthusiastic angler, Gardiner is delighted by the prospect of trying your trout stream, and you settle arrangements and instruct your groundsman accordingly.

When you propose returning to the ladies, Mr Gardiner guffaws and offers you a slap on the back: "I wondered how long you would last out here," he says, winking. Ordinarily, you would find such familiarity offensive, but in the circumstances you are cheered by this indication that her uncle does not object to your interest in his niece. You hope that you are not blushing as you lead the way briskly back to the house.

© 2019 _elag_


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

On returning to the saloon, you pause for a moment in the doorway to observe the dynamics. To your very great pleasure, you see Georgiana and Elizabeth in easy conversation, clearly enjoying each other's company, while Mrs Gardiner and Mrs Annesley are engaging the two Bingley sisters, at least one of whom seems to realise she is being deliberately distracted and is itching to insert herself into the other conversation. This tableau is broken up by the entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all the finest fruits in season. The ladies soon collect around the table, to admire the beautiful pyramids of grapes, nectarines and peaches. As they begin to make their selections, you enter the room and greet all present with meticulous politeness.

You are acutely aware that the suspicions of the whole party are awakened against you. There is scarcely an eye which does not watch your behaviour, and in no countenance is attentive curiosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley's. That lady gracefully sets her plate aside and moves to greet you with smiles and an affectionate touch of your sleeve. You respond politely, but are anxious to forward the conversation between Miss Elizabeth and Georgiana, so do not stop to pay Miss Bingley the attentions she no doubt believes she deserves. Rather, you extend the minimum attention required by your status as host, disengage her hand from your arm and move across the room to greet your sister.

Despite being so closely observed, you have no fear of showing your pleasure in Miss Elizabeth's company, and you happily join in their conversation, which turns out to be speculation as to the staging of an opera for which both have read the score but which neither have seen performed. You have the advantage of them, having seen a production the summer before, and the two young ladies press you for details you can barely recall. Several enjoyable minutes are passed in this manner before Miss Bingley once more imposes herself on your attention, by saying, with sneering civility:

"Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the _shire Militia removed from Meryton? They must be a great loss to _your_ family."

Although she does not mention Wickham by name, the implication is clear. You bristle with anger, ready to physically eject the harridan from the room, or preferably from the house. You have kept Georgiana's near elopement with Wickham a close secret, revealed to no creature, where secrecy was possible, but Elizabeth Bennet. How could Caroline Bingley have come to suspect it? Surely she could know nothing of it. Grasping for control of your temper, you realise that she is ignorant of how she has injured Georgiana. But if this unexpected attack is not aimed at your sister, her malice must be directed instead at your Elizabeth, hoping to remind you of her supposed preference for Wickham and damage her in your eyes. You are torn between concern for Georgiana's sensibilities and anger at any attempt to raise discord between yourself and the object of your affections. You are about to say something … you know not what … but a glance at Miss Elizabeth and your sister stays your reaction: Georgiana is overcome with confusion and unable to lift up her eyes, while Miss Elizabeth is sitting at the alert, her eyes slightly narrowed and her shoulders thrown back. The image reminds you forcefully of the moment before she threw your proposal back in your face at Hunsford: this is Miss Elizabeth Bennet poised to strike. She is the first to speak, exerting herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack. She answers in a tolerably detached tone, although standing so close, you can see the tension in her frame:

"Why, Miss Bingley, I did not realise you took such a close interest in the movements of the Militia. They are gone to Brighton for the summer, and are unlikely to return to Meryton. It is true that the town is quieter in their absence, but then, it has always been a quiet village and we are quite used to that. I cannot say that my family repines _their_ absence any more than it repines _yours_. Life without such temporary visitors is quite as it has always been."

Her calm riposte is delivered with such grace that Caroline Bingley has nothing to say in return: vexed and disappointed, she dares not approach nearer to Wickham in your presence, and she cannot have missed the fact that Miss Elizabeth neatly turned the intended insult back upon her interlocutor.

Elizabeth returns to her conversation with Georgiana, gently drawing her back into a discussion of music, although it is some time before your sister recovers sufficiently to venture the occasional almost-whispered comment. Your own attention is fixed more cheerfully on the two, and you almost forget that anyone else is present at all, until the butler announces that dinner is ready. You offer Georgiana one arm and Elizabeth the other and lead your guests into the dining room.

You take your place at the head of the table after seating Georgiana in the hostess's place at the foot and Elizabeth immediately to the right of your seat, blithely unconcerned about how the remainder of the party arrange themselves. As everyone settles, you see that Georgiana is flanked by Mrs Gardiner and Mr Bingley, company that you are sure will treat her with the courtesy and good cheer required to put her at her ease. Mr Gardiner moves faster than one might expect from such a large man, and somehow, he is seated at your left hand just before Caroline Bingley reaches the table. With a poorly concealed huff, she has no option but to take one of the middle seats, politely held for her by a footman, where her conversational partners will be her sister and brother-in-law, unless she can bring herself to talk to the tradesman from Cheapside that she has spent so many hours disparaging and who is now seated at her side. You really cannot spare a thought for how she gets on.

Once satisfied that Georgiana is comfortable, your attention turns to the beautiful woman at your side. Elizabeth is suddenly shy, avoiding your gaze and answering you in brief, neutral phrases. The outgoing, witty woman who had set her own embarrassment aside to encourage your young sister was now hidden and her uncertainties were newly evident. You try to put her at her ease, but all your conversational gambits fall flat until you thank her for her kindness to your sister. She looks up in startlement and disclaims any particular merit: "Miss Darcy is such a sweet person," she says. "How could anyone not find her delightful. I did nothing that you need thank me for, sir."

"We both know that you helped avoid particular unpleasantness, Miss Elizabeth. I am grateful, and I'm afraid there is nothing you could say that will convince me otherwise."

"Well then, sir, you leave me with no choice but to say that you are welcome, for I could do no less." You bask in the smile that she then gifts you and know yourself to be entirely in her power. Your own cheeks are stretched in a matching smile, and a pleasant discussion between yourself, Elizabeth and her uncle takes you to the end of the meal.

© 2019 _elag_


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Georgiana leads the ladies to the parlour after the last remove, leaving you with Bingley, Gardiner and Hurst for company. Cigars are lit and port poured before Bingley declares with sudden energy: "I say, Darcy, I think I shall re-open Netherfield directly." This catches Mr Gardiner's attention, and he turns a steely gaze on your friend.

"If you plan on repeating your last sojourn in that county, sir, you had much better stay away," he said, sternly. Bingley is amazed at such a declaration, and sits with his mouth open, unable to summon a response. No doubt he believes himself to have made a positive impression in Hertfordshire and knows not what could have led to such a rebuke. You take pity on his confusion and beg Mr Gardiner to explain himself more fully. He is, it seems, perfectly happy to do so:

"Mr Bingley, you were welcomed warmly by the community when you first arrived in Meryton and gave every appearance of enjoying their company. You accepted the hospitality of many of the leading families. You paid particular attentions to one young lady, giving rise to not unreasonable expectations. And after all that, you decamped without so much as taking your leave, on the excuse that you would be away only for a few days. And you have not set foot in the neighbourhood since, sir. I merely advise that it would be better for the … _people_ you have disappointed, and better for your own reputation, that you never return to Netherfield than that you repeat such ungentlemanly conduct."

Bingley is looking quite ill: his face has paled alarmingly and the hand holding his port glass is shaking. He looks first to you and then to Mr Gardiner with a pleading hopelessness but the only word that passes his lips is "Expectations?"

Mr Gardiner snorts angrily. "Yes, sir, expectations. You engaged my niece's affections, paid your attentions with such diligence that the entire neighbourhuood expected a declaration at any moment, and then abandoned her to the pain of disappointed hopes and the derision of the neighbourhood, which is still these months later rife with speculation as to whether Jane did something to scare you off, or you were simply a rake that had led her on. I care for my niece, Mr Bingley, and I do not wish to see you toy with her affections a second time."

You are shocked to hear the matter stated thus. Even after Elizabeth's reproofs on the subject, which she delivered in the aftermath of your terrible proposal at the Hunsford parsonage, you had not fully considered the way the sudden departure of the Netherfield party last November would have been seen by the neighbourhood.

By now Bingley is shaking his head in disbelief and has gently set his glass upon the table for fear of spilling his port. "I never thought…" he says. "I only thought to free her from unwanted attentions. I meant no harm. Caroline assured me she had written to all the neighbours taking our leave. Surely things cannot be so bad as you describe?"

"I have not spoken to the neighbours about the matter. I only know what I have heard from my sister and her daughters. The letter your sister so kindly sent was carefully crafted to destroy all Jane's hopes, and the way both your sisters cut my niece when she was in town before Christmas was cruel in the extreme."

Bingley gapes for a moment, before asking with clear trepidation, "_Which_ of your nieces did my sisters cut, sir?"

Gardiner rolls his eyes, before saying, "Jane was with us for nearly two months. She visited your sisters as soon as she could after her arrival in town, as she believed them to be her friends. It was long weeks before they deigned to return the courtesy, and when they did, all they could speak of was how they were much too busy to find time for 'people they had known in the country.' They also went out of their way to speak of how much you, sir, were enjoying the season in company with Miss Darcy. Having met the young lady in question, I find that unlikely to have been anything but deliberate cruelty on your sisters' part."

Bingley by now is fuming, and you are sure there will be an accounting in the guest wing this evening. You are hardly less incensed at this shameless treatment of your sister's reputation, and angrily say, "My sister is not yet out, sir, and does not attend social events in the company of any gentleman but me!"

Mr Gardiner merely nods in your direction before fixing his glare once again on Bingley. "Jane Bennet is the most forgiving soul in the world," he says, "and she cannot bring herself to think ill of you or your sisters, so she blames _herself_ for somehow losing your affections. The rest of us see more clearly, sir, and we blame _you f_or her pain. Yes, your sisters have behaved badly, but so have _you_."

"If you return to Netherfield in order to make redress for the harm you have done, then perhaps it is a worthy venture. But if you come with no thought for the people around you and no control over the people in your own household, then I say again, it would be better you not come at all."

"Mr Gardiner," says Bingley, with a serious mien, "my only purpose in returning to Netherfield is to discover whether Miss Bennet might allow me to request her hand in marriage. I was indeed a fool to ever leave, and clearly a fool to trust my sister to complete the courtesies of leave taking. I was a fool to listen to others about whether Miss Bennet held me in affection. That is something that only she can tell me. But I promise you, sir, that your niece's happiness will be my _only_ objective on my return."

At that, Gardiner laughs, breaking the tension in the room. "I doubt that will be your _only_ objective, young man. But so long as it is your primary one, then I am sure your return will be welcomed."

Hurst has been watching this exchange with wide eyes, no doubt wondering in what ways his wife and sister-in-law will make his life a misery while Charles Bingley is off wooing the lovely Miss Bennet. He says nothing, however, simply downing another glass of port.

You are impatient to return to the ladies – nearly twenty minutes of separation from Elizabeth and you are pining for her company. "Well, gentlemen," you suggest, standing, "should we not leave the usual topics of conversation to tomorrow while we are fishing, for I have never yet known Bingley to manage the activity in silence." Chuckling, you give your friend a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Shall we adjourn?"

© 2019 _elag_


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

In the parlour, Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst are at the pianoforte, demonstrating their skill at the instrument in a brisk duet while the other ladies sit politely listening. The gentlemen file in quietly and assume seats to join the audience. Pleased with the attention, and happy with anything that prevents conversation between Miss Elizabeth and any Darcy, Caroline moves quickly into a longer sonata as soon as the duet is finished. Mrs Hurst remains to turn her pages. When Caroline opens the music for a third piece, you think with some nostalgia of the expedient used by Mr Bennet at the Netherfield Ball: but who would be so gauche as to suggest Miss Bingley make way for the other young ladies to display? Certainly not her brother, and if _he_ would not perform the office, no-one else could.

Resigning yourself to sit politely listening, you are surprised when your sister takes the initiative to suggest an impromptu dance to the tune Miss Bingley is playing. It is, indeed, a dance tune, and you immediately claim Miss Elizabeth as your partner. Bingley leads Georgiana out to join you, and the Gardiners stand up together. It is a pleasant diversion in pleasant company. Your sister's enjoyment would be enough to satisfy you, but the chance to dance with Elizabeth is beyond your best expectations for the evening. To touch her hand, to place your arm around her waist as you spin in the regulated steps of the dance, to have her flushed and laughing face so close to your own: these are unexpected delights, and will supply you with fresh memories to replace some of the more painful ones from the past.

To your delight, Elizabeth seems if not exactly comfortable, at least to be having a good time in your company: she does not shrink from your touch, and there is no stiffness in her gait as she dances at your side. If you had to guess – and of course you have to guess – you would say she appreciates your attentions.

Your pulse throbs in your ears and you are sufficiently distracted by the heady combination of hope and desire that it comes as almost a physical shock to realise that the music has stopped. Miss Bingley, it seems, is dissatisfied with her role as musician whilst others dance, and she closes the instrument at the end of the piece. Georgiana moves as if to replace her, but you signal for her to take a seat instead. You do not want to push your luck with Elizabeth's enjoyment of your company, and a whole evening of dancing at Pemberley would be so far out of character as to raise more than one eyebrow. You will woo Miss Elizabeth, but you will not make yourself ridiculous, nor her the target of gossip, in the process.

And so the party assume comfortable seats for an evening of conversation. As you still hold Miss Elizabeth's hand from the end of the dance, you lead her to a sofa near her aunt where you can sit next to the object of your affections while feigning interest in the rest of the room.

Louisa Hurst is seated next to her husband, although he is slumped in apparent stupor, offering his wife no source of diversion. Instead, she catches her sister's hand as she passes and draws her down to sit at her left. Obviously disgruntled to be commandeered in such a way, Miss Bingley is too well mannered to openly complain. (She exacts her revenge by asking her older sister about the health of her husband's parents, a subject she knows can bring only pain: impecunious and poorly-connected the elder Hursts might be, but they still had sufficient pride to resent the daughter of trade who's fortune their son had married to save their estate from the debt collectors. Louisa Hurst had thought she was marrying for affection, only to find that her husband's family saw nothing but the size of her dowry, and her husband saw nothing at all beyond the plate in front of him and the glass in his hand. She now lives in a state of limbo, waiting for that distant day when her disgustingly robust father-in-law dies and she can take her place as mistress of the family estate. Then, at last, she will reap the practical benefits of marrying a gentleman, since it seems she is destined to enjoy none of the more intangible ones.)

Bingley is conversing eagerly with Mr Gardiner, apparently soliciting tales of Jane Bennet's childhood. Gardiner clearly remains wary of Bingley's intentions towards his eldest niece, but Bingley's transparent enthusiasm is gradually eroding that scepticism. You know from experience how difficult it is to resist the exuberant charm of your friend: it has too many times overcome your own opposition to attending assemblies and balls and otherwise participating in the whirl of London society. Gardiner may be an astute man in the world of business and a cautious guardian for his family, but even he cannot stand against such an onslaught of buoyant optimism. You allow yourself a small smile, thinking of the future felicity that awaits Charles Bingley when he decides to stop talking _about_ Jane Bennet and instead travel to Hertfordshire to talk _to_ her.

At your side, Elizabeth is talking animatedly with Georgiana about sights she has seen on her travels. You could sit and listen to her forever. Mrs Gardiner and Mrs Annesley make occasional contributions, but the bulk of the conversation is borne by the two young ladies. You are pleased to see Georgiana excitedly interrupt to share her own impressions of Dovedale – is this the same sister who had been almost mute with embarrassment only a few hours before? Elizabeth Bennet truly is the best of women to be able to work such a transformation!

After a short time of such silent observation, you find yourself the target of that lady's wit: "What can your brother mean by coming in all this state to eavesdrop on our conversation?" she asks, one eyebrow raised in challenge. "Did you not think, Mr Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now when I spoke of mountains?" Her words can only be a deliberate reference to your past conversations – one at Lucas Lodge and one at Rosings – and if you had time you might worry that she was reminding you of your past transgressions against her in order to warn you that she had not forgiven you. But you do not have time for such reflections, and melancholy is not possible with her bright eyes turned on you in challenge: reply you must, and reply you do.

"With great energy, but while it is a subject that does not excite all ladies, I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find great enjoyment in the beauties of nature. _In this case_ I can have no doubt but that you are expressing an opinion which is in fact your own."

You are rewarded by her wide smile: your answer, with its own echoes of past conversations, has met her challenge to her satisfaction. You allow yourself a little self-congratulation, which perhaps shows in your face, as that eyebrow arches once again, and she replies not to you but to your sister: "Your brother will give you a very pretty notion of me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky in meeting with a person so able to expose my real character, in a part of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of credit."

At this, Georgiana – who is unused to seeing her brother engage in such repartee, and certainly unused to hearing his conduct questioned – looks in wide-eyed confusion between the two of you before saying, "Oh, no! Fitzwilliam has only ever said good things about you! And he always tells the absolute truth!"

You cannot help the blush that rises to your cheeks, but strive to appear as unaffected by such praise as possible.

"Then he is truly the best of brothers," Elizabeth replies to Georgiana, before fixing you with a direct glance, all trace of teasing vanished, and adding, "but I suspect neither he nor I are quite so perfect as that would suggest, my dear Georgiana. I assure you we have both made mistakes in the past, but are striving to conduct ourselves better now."

Your heart skips a beat. Although it is impossible for either of you to directly approach such sensitive topics in present company, this wonderful woman has found a way to extend an apology obliquely through your sister. You seize the opportunity she has offered. Without shifting your gaze from Elizabeth's, you speak as though to Georgiana: "Indeed, Georgie, I am far from perfect. I have faults enough, and have made grievous mistakes which I strive every day to remedy. I hope I have been a good brother to you, but I aim to be better. You must tell me frankly when you think I have erred, for I have found such honest counsel exceeding useful in overcoming the errors of my past."

There. It is said. You cannot speak plainer with so many interested parties listening in, but you can see from her heightened colour and softened expression that your words have been understood. Poor Georgie is at a complete loss as to how to respond to such a statement, and it is left to Mrs Gardiner to return the conversation to safer ground by mentioning her delight at visting Kellynch Hall during their travels, and the delightful vistas to be found in the grounds of that great house. If both you and Elizabeth remain quietly contemplative for some time, the others are too polite to notice.

Before the evening is over, the Gardiners and Miss Elizabeth are once again engaged to dine at Pemberley the next day. You watch their carriage pull away with a soaring hope. You do not wish to part from your love, but you will see her again on the morrow, and after this evening's revelations, you will not let another day pass without declaring your heart and your intentions. Patience be damned! Miss Elizabeth Bennet apologised for her past mistakes. You can think of none she could be referring to but to trust too much in Wickham – an error she had already let you know she had corrected – and to reject your hand. Oh, if she regrets _that_ decision – if she truly thinks you recognise your own errors and are striving to be a better man – then you cannot bear to wait any longer to find out just how much her opinion of you has been amended.

But what if she is not ready? She might well think better of you without going so far as to hold you in affection. After all, there was much room for improvement in her opinion! What if, by asking too soon, you push her into another rejection? Dear God! The very thought of her turning you down again rips a hole in your gut. You have been pacing the corridors in the middle of the night, but at this idea you slump against the wall and tears prick your eyes.

You are roused by the scrabble of your hound's claws against the polished floorboards. Loyal to a fault, she has been walking the corridors with you, but at your unexpected halt, she has set off ahead as if to show you the proper way to fret. And she is right: there is no reason to stop. Miss Elizabeth has given you more than enough encouragement. You can phrase your offer in such a way as to invite her to take more time if she is not certain. You will not invoke her ire this time, as your previous effort did. She is too generous to treat you with such harsh disdain a second time, and if she does not leap to anger, you have every reason to think her gentler humours are inclined towards liking you. No – it is quite simple: just avoid insulting the lady as you propose, and you have a good chance of winning her.

Tomorrow then. Or, as you hear a distant clock chime the hour, you realise tomorrow is already today. You must get some sleep if you are not to make as much a hash of this effort as you did the last one, so you call your faithful hound to heel and return to your bedchamber.

© 2019 _elag_


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

You are up, dressed and breakfasted before nine. You allow your valet to groom you like a prize stallion – your hair is freshly trimmed, your face shaved, a splash of cologne applied, and your dark green jacket and your hessian boots all brushed to a shine. Far too impatient for a carriage ride, you set off on horseback, letting the groves and fields pass by in a blur, and arrive at the Rose and Crown, a small bouquet of roses clutched in your hand.

A servant shows you once more into the Gardiners' suite, where you find Elizabeth alone, tears streaming down her face and body shaking even as she rushes to the door. "I beg your pardon," she exclaims, "but I must leave you. I must find Mr Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I have not an instant to lose."

"Good God! What is the matter?" you cry, with more feeling than politeness. All thought of proposing has vanished, replaced by an overwhelming concern for Elizabeth's distress. Recollecting your manners, you add, "I will not detain you a minute, but let me, or let the servant go after Mr and Mrs Gardiner. You are not well enough; you cannot go yourself."

She hesitates – you know her strength and her unwillingness to sit idle while others act – but her knees tremble under her and she recognises the sense in what you suggest. The servant is recalled and Elizabeth breathlessly instructs him to fetch his master and mistress home instantly.

Once this is done, her strength leaves her and she slumps into a seat at the table, looking so miserably ill that it is impossible for you to leave her, or to refrain from saying, with as much gentleness as you can muster, "Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you present relief?" You are desperate to find some way to ease the distress she is obviously feeling, but without more knowledge as to its cause, you are at a loss as to how to help. "A glass of wine," you suggest, "shall I get you one? You are very ill."

You watch with a mixture of admiration and sympathy as Elizabeth pulls herself together enough to reassure you – _she_ is reassuring _you_: "No, I thank you. There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well." At the look of frank disbelief on your face, she adds, "I am only distressed by some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn," before bursting into tears once again.

For a few minutes she can say nothing more, and you sit in wretched suspense murmuring incoherent words of sympathy and concern and wondering as to the nature of this dreadful news. Has the worst happened? Has her father passed, leaving all Mrs Bennet's predictions of penury to come true? Is it her mother? Or one of her sisters? A small thought insinuates itself into the back of your mind, even as the most part of your attention is consumed with resisting taking her into your arms to offer more tangible comfort than your fruitless words can do: if someone at Longbourn has died, she will be in mourning for months, or even a year, and all your hopes will be delayed once again! Chastising yourself for being so selfish at such a time, you press your handkerchief into her hand since her own is now so damp from her tears as to no longer be of service, and observe her in compassionate silence.

At length, she speaks again. "I have just had a letter from Jane with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from anyone. My younger sister, Lydia, has left all her friends – has eloped; has thrown herself into the power of – of Mr Wickham!" You reel at the shock: yet again that creature has hurt someone you love. But now is not the time to indulge in such thoughts. You focus on the distraught woman in front of you, who adds, "They are gone off together from Brighton. _You_ know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections, nothing that can tempt him to – she is lost for ever."

For a long moment, you are fixed in astonishment. Her harsh recitation of Miss Lydia's lack of advantages echoes your own words to Elizabeth last spring. Oh, how could you have been so cruel as to speak of such things under the guise of a proposal? And now – now her family had been brought even lower by the actions of a cad you might have denounced, but who instead you had left free to roam the world and wreak his havoc wherever he chose. And of course – of _course_ – he chose to attack where he could cause greatest pain to _you_. No doubt Wickham had discerned your attraction to Elizabeth in Hertfordshire – you had taken great pains to disguise it, but Wickham knew you of old; he could read your expressions better than anyone else bar your cousin Richard. Yes, it took little imagination to see that Elizabeth Bennet was in her present state of distress, and faced the ruination of her whole family, simply because George Wickham hated Fitzwilliam Darcy and could not resist a chance to cause him grief. That Elizabeth and all her family would suffer ruin in the process would not matter to him a whit. Oh, but how it matters to you!

Your musings and self-recriminations are interrupted when Elizabeth resumes her tale: "When I consider," she adds in a yet more agitated voice, "that I might have prevented it! I, who knew what he was. Had I but explained some part of it only – some part of what I learnt, to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not have happened. But it is all – all too late now."

You cannot bear to see her assume the blame, when there is a long list of others more to blame: Wickham, you (for a much longer and more culpable silence about the cad), and even Lydia Bennet were all more responsible for what had happened than Elizabeth could ever be. You find your voice at last: "I am grieved indeed, grieved, shocked. But is it certain – absolutely certain?" You cling to the hope that somehow the news has travelled ahead of the full facts.

"Oh, yes!" she answers, putting paid to that tiny flicker of hope. "They left together from Brighton on Sunday night, and were traced almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone to Scotland."

"And what has been done, what has been attempted to recover her?"

"My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle's immediate assistance; and we shall be off, I hope, in half an hour. But nothing can be done – I know very well that nothing can be done. How is such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!"

You shake your head in silent disagreement. You know full well how Wickham can be worked on. All it takes is money, and you have plenty of that. Of course, first you must find him, and hope that Miss Lydia is still with him. You will need to purchase her a husband, be that Wickham or someone else, and pay your old nemesis enough to buy his silence about the circumstances. Your plans are formed almost immediately. You will repair directly to London and search them out. You know far better than Mr Bennet or Mr Gardiner where he is likely to be found, and knowing Wickham, he will be expecting you to find him, eagerly anticipating rubbing your nose in this latest mess, and plumbing your pocket as a bonus.

"When my eyes were opened to his real character," she cries in anguish, "Oh! Had I known what I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not – I was afraid of doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake!"

She could not know how those words echo your own thoughts. If only you had exposed Wickham, but fear of doing too much, of pushing him to the point of exposing Georgiana's shame, had stilled your tongue. Oh, wretched mistake, indeed!

You have an almost overwhelming desire to reassure Elizabeth that all will be well – that you will fix everything. But you cannot. If only you had proposed yesterday, or even arrived half an hour earlier this morning, you might be her betrothed and have a right to offer her such comfort. But to do so now would be unforgivable. It would seem to be seeking credit in a situation in which you really own a share of the blame; looking for her gratitude when she owed you nothing. If Elizabeth Bennet can ever come to love you, let it be for yourself alone, and not confused with gratitude for a service to her family. Besides, you cannot be sure of your success in this quest, and offering assurances in such circumstances would be to undervalue her own good sense.

And so, with a deep sense of foreboding, all you can do is wish her a better outcome than she might presently anticipate, and assure her of your real, though unavailing concern. "Would to Heaven that anything could be either said or done on my part that might offer consolation to such distress! But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks." That is as close as you can come to hinting that you might have some hope to offer, and, really, it is not very close at all. You can see that she reads nothing into your comments but civility, and when you mention that her party will not now be able to dine at Pemberley as planned, she walks numbly through the steps of polite conversation, expressing her apologies to your sister and the hope that the news can be concealed from the rest of the party at Pemberley for as long as possible. Slightly appalled at the thought of Miss Bingley's reaction to such news, you immediately assure Elizabeth of your secrecy, repeat your wishes for a happier conclusion than there was at present reason to hope, and, with one serious, parting look, take your leave.

© 2019 _elag_


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Now your memory has one more image of Elizabeth Bennet burnt into it: sitting at a small table in a sitting room at an inn, no longer slumped in dejection nor prostrate with grief, but erect, determined, and shot through with sorrow. Once again she is leaving you; this time not with angry rejection but with grief. You hope some small part of that grief is the pain of leaving you now that your past has at last been overcome and you have begun to be friends, and perhaps more than friends. But most of it is pure and simple pain at the distress of her family, the jeopardy her youngest sister is in, the disgrace she and her sisters anticipate as their new lot in life: with all this, her own hopes (if she had any) must pale into insignificance. Elizabeth Bennet is too selfless a being to indulge in her own regrets in such circumstances. Her generous heart will be fully engaged in caring for others.

Nothing has ever driven you before as does that image of Elizabeth – still shocked, pained and grieved by such terrible news, yet already bracing herself to do what is needed and to support her sisters and parents through whatever lies ahead. You will do whatever is necessary to replace that look of despair with one of her arch smiles – to bring hope and joy back to her life. She might never forgive you for Wickham's perfidy, but she _could_ be happy again. That would have to be enough.

And so here you are once more, pushing your mount to greater speed as you do what is necessary to survive without Elizabeth Bennet in your life. Only this time, you do not try to drive her from your mind. Instead you cling to every memory, every look, every pert remark. You cherish her smiles, ache with her tears, and wonder at her strength and grace.

She is the beacon that guides your way to London, braces you for the distasteful negotiations with Wickham, comforts you in the early hours when you wake to an aching sense of loneliness, and inspires you to be the sort of man a woman like her could respect.

You shy away from naming, even to yourself, your need for her love. That dream now seems so far out of reach: she might have forgiven you for your stupidity in Kent, but how could anyone forgive you for having let Wickham carry on seducing maidens when a word from you could have blackened his name beyond repair? How could a Bennet in particular forgive you for allowing him to drag their family to the brink of ruin? No, you dare not wish for that which is impossible: the love of Elizabeth Bennet. You will cherish every memory you have of her, even the painful ones, but you are not so foolish as to expect you still have any sort of a chance.

Bingley, on the other hand? That bouncing ball of optimism knows nothing of the near ruin of Lydia Bennet. You have taken all possible precautions to ensure no whisper of the affair came to the notice of your friend and his sisters. It has taken all your ingenuity to keep him from returning to Netherfield Park before the matter is satisfactorily settled. If he had taken his sisters within a league of Meryton, they would have sniffed out the scandal and used it to attempt to dissuade him from Miss Bennet yet again.

And so you have distracted him with a series of introductions to important business connections (who, you tell him, are only in town this very week between journeys to India), with requests for advice on your investments (which you have called in early so that you can honestly claim they are now due for reinvestment this very week), a visit to the horse sales to purchase a gentle lady's mount for the Netherfield stables (suited to, oh, say, someone like Miss Bennet should she be minded to visit in the future)…

In the end, you have done all you can. Wickham and Miss Lydia are safely married and have completed their honeymoon visit to Hertfordshire. Rumours about elopement have been successfully washed away by the definite news of a wedding and the triumphant return of the bride and her handsome new husband to the family estate. The new Mrs Wickham and her husband have now gone north to join his new regiment at Newcastle. At last it is safe for Bingley to return to the neighbourhood, and you call on his town house to inquire of him why on earth he is still cooling his heels about town when surely he would far rather be in Hertfordshire.

After overcoming his shock at your jovial manner, Bingley laughs and shakes his head. "It is you, Darcy, who kept me in town so long. If I didn't know better, I would suspect you still disapproved of my interest in Miss Bennet."

"Far from it, my friend," you chuckle. "I wish you every happiness, and it seems Miss Bennet is a necessary ingredient for your happiness, if she will have you. So, go to it, man!"

You are unprepared for what comes next, although, knowing Bingley, you really should not be: "You must come with me, Darcy. I will need your support."

You still feel a healthy dose of regret for the role you played in separating Bingley from Jane Bennet in the year before. You owe your friend all the support you can give him in mending the breach. But this – to return to Hertfordshire and watch him woo a Bennet sister while your own hopes to do the same lie in tatters – this is more than you think you can bear.

To buy some time you turn to gaze out the window, asking, "When do you plan to go?"

"We shall be off first thing tomorrow morning," was the cheerful reply.

"We?"

"Don't worry. I am not lost to all good sense. My sisters will remain in town. It will just be the two of us. Shall I pick you up at ten?"

With a sigh, you realise the opportunity to beg off has already passed you by. There is no honourable way to avoid accompanying Bingley into Hertfordshire. "No, Charles. Send your staff and baggage ahead in your carriage and I will collect you in mine. I will need my own conveyance if I am to leave town at the moment – there are several matters of business which may call me back at short notice." Well, you tell yourself, the business of your heart is still business. It is not _quite_ a lie.

Back at Netherfield Park, it is eerily quiet. Without Bingley's sisters, there is no music, no pointless chatter, no formal socialising to endure. You do not need to choke down cloyingly rich meals whilst avoiding the continual attempts of a hostess to attract your praise. Bingley, usually noisy enough for the two of you, is subdued: until he is sure of Miss Bennet's affections he can think of nothing else, and you have begged him to cease regaling you in the meantime with his doubts and worries. With some asperity you point out that he can achieve nothing by fretting, and that the only person who can answer his questions lives five miles away at Longbourn, so would Bingley kindly stop asking you what _you_ think _she_ might think. To your great surprise, he does, and now sits near the fireplace, silently nursing a brandy and gazing disconsolately at the flames.

You feel a little guilty for speaking to him so, but in truth you could not bear any more discussion of _his_ anxious heart while you dare not share with him your _own_ affections for a Bennet sister. It is a secret you dare not tell anyone, since you seem doomed to disappointment. But just before calling it a night, Bingley says, more to the fire than to you, "Well, tomorrow I will learn my fate. I have made a mess of things, but I will not give up until I am certain of the lady's feelings. I will not quail at the task for fear of failing. Faint heart never won fair maiden." With that, he downs the last of his brandy, nods in your direction, and leaves the room.

You linger a little longer. Those words have struck a chord – did you not say just the same only a few weeks ago when fate put Elizabeth Bennet in your path again at Pemberley? Should you not hold true to your own convictions? True, she might wish nothing more to do with you after the Wickham debacle, but that was for the lady herself to say, not for you to imagine without proof. You will accompany Bingley to Longbourn and let her conduct be your guide. You raise your glass in a toast to the flames, and echo your friend: "Faint heart never won fair maiden."

© 2019 _elag_


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note: **_Here are the final two chapters. I am glad that the reviewers unanimously approved of my decision not to lift the veil on Darcy's time in London chasing down Wickham and Lydia. We all want more time with Darcy and Lizzy instead :-). elag_

**Chapter 15**

Two days of agony follow. You visit her home. You are scorned by her mother, but remain civil. You wait for chances to speak to her, but everything conspires against you: there are other young ladies in the way, there is too much rain to permit of walking, Mrs Bennet's effusions chase out all other conversation. It seems hopeless.

On the few occasions you _have_ managed to converse with Elizabeth, she has not strayed from the polite and proper: your sister's health, the condition of the roads, even the prospects for hunting at Netherfield. She seems to be avoiding your eye, instead always concentrating on her needlework, or busy preparing coffee. As each visit passes, you become more despondent. If Elizabeth wanted a renewal of your attentions, surely she would give you some sign?

You cannot bear it. Bingley has secured the hand of _his_ fair maiden – indeed, his forgiveness was quickly granted and a betrothal announced almost as soon as he had stepped across the threshold of Longbourn again. Miss Bennet, it seems, really is as kind and forgiving as her uncle and sister have portrayed her. She and Bingley are well matched in that way, and will travel through life being delighted by everything around them. You are happy for them both. They deserve a happy ending after so much delay and disappointment.

It is just that their happiness throws your own pain into such sharp relief.

Spending every day in Elizabeth's presence, watching Bingley and Miss Bennet coo sweet nothings at each other while Elizabeth avoids your eye and seems embarrassed by your continued presence, is a torture you do not deserve. More, you can see that Elizabeth finds your presence disconcerting. You have no excuse for imposing yourself on her in such a way. You need to get away.

On the third morning, you bid Bingley farewell. "I must away to town," you claim, unable to concoct any convincing specifics, "but will be back in plenty of time to stand up with you at your wedding."

Bingley is too happy to be distracted by your lack of explanation, or perhaps he is just used to your tendency for reticence, and he cheerfully waves you off, enjoining you to return as soon as it is convenient. You watch carefully as your carriage rolls through the town of Meryton, hoping against hope for a last glimpse of Elizabeth. But she is not there. If she has gone walking today, she does not cross your path. No, you surmise, the fates will no longer torment you with glimpses of the one you love.

London is dull. Darcy House is dull. Your club is dull. Even fencing is dull. Occasional letters from Georgiana, who remains at Pemberley, briefly cheer you up, but you know your own letters are merely dry recitations of dull daily events: you cannot find the inspiration to write of anything more. Days drift by.

One thing you can say for your Aunt Catherine, though: _she_ is never dull. Aggravating, certainly. Condescending, without a doubt. Interfering, inevitably. But _never_ dull. And today is no exception: Lady Catherine de Bourgh sweeps into your town house like an invading force. She ignores the protests of your butler and throws open your study door herself.

"I have just come from Hertfordshire," she announces in stentorian tones, and she has your immediate attention.

"Hertfordshire?" you ask stupidly, not even thinking to offer her a seat or call for refreshments.

Being your Aunt Catherine, she needs no invitation, and settles grandly in the most ornate chair available (which is not, by her standards, ornate enough), and repeats "Hertfordshire!" before condescending to explain further.

"A report of a most alarming nature recently reached me, and I set off at once to have it contradicted."

As explanations go, it is not particularly helpful. But you simply raise an eyebrow, certain that your aunt needs little encouragement to tell you more. And you are correct.

"Mr Collins, who as you know has family connections in Meryton, told me that not only was your friend Mr Bingley soon to be married to the eldest Bennet girl, but that her sister Elizabeth was on the point of being most advantageously married."

Your heart quails at this news, but you are still confused as to why your Aunt should take an interest, or should describe this news as alarming. It might alarm _you_, to think of Elizabeth Bennet engaged to another, but surely it could be nothing to Lady Catherine!

Her next words clear that up: "I was told that Miss Elizabeth Bennet would, in all likelihood, be soon united to my nephew, my own nephew, to _you_, Darcy! Though I knew it must be a scandalous falsehood, though I would not injure you so much as to suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on setting off for that place, that I might make my sentiments known to the lady in question."

"You spoke to Miss Elizabeth about this rumour, even though you believed it to be a falsehood?" You cannot keep the amazement from your voice. Surely even your Aunt Catherine realises that travelling to Longbourn to see Miss Elizabeth would be rather a confirmation of the rumour than evidence of its falsehood.

"I did," she replies, and you can hear the anger dripping from her tone. "I warned her that a woman such as her, of inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to the family would be scorned by all who know you, would be the laughingstock of society. I called on her sense of gratitude for my condescension to her last Easter. I reminded her that you have been destined from birth to be united with my Anne. I warned her not to step beyond the sphere to which she had been born. And do you know what her answer was?"

You are half mortification (at hearing such a rendition of feelings that had once been your own) half outrage (that your aunt had so abused your beloved), but all agog to learn the answer. "I am sure I cannot imagine," you reply, careful not to let your inner turmoil show.

"She refused me! She flatly rejected my request."

A small burst of air escapes you as you realise Elizabeth, confronted with a petition that she _not _marry you phrased in remarkably similar terms to your own petition that she _would_ marry you, had flatly rejected both petitions with no regard for the standing of the petitioner. Lord, how you love that woman! You quickly recover yourself and invite your Aunt to elaborate.

"Oh, she admitted at last that she is _not_ engaged to you," Lady Catherine says, "but refused to promise never to enter into such an engagement! _'If Mr Darcy is neither by honour nor inclination confined to his cousin,'_ the presumptuous miss said, _'why is not he to make another choice? And if I am that choice, why may I not accept him?'_ Can you imagine such impertinence?"

Your mind is reeling. What does it mean? Elizabeth Bennet has refused to say she will never marry you? You want to set off immediately to Longbourn to ask her to explain herself. If she refuses to refuse you, does that mean she might actually accept you? You must know! You must know now!

"Miss Elizabeth Bennet," your aunt spits, "is an obstinate, headstrong girl. She has no sense of honour, decorum, prudence, even interest. Do you know what she told me? She said that the wife of Mr Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily attached to her situation that she could, upon the whole, have no cause to repine! Extraordinary sources of happiness indeed! The girl is clearly a fortune-hunter who aims to entrap you for your wealth."

You have been unsure about many things in your dealings with Elizabeth Bennet, but the one thing you know beyond doubt is that she is no fortune-hunter. If she were, you would have been married to her months ago: no fortune-hunter would have turned down your first proposal, no matter how insulting it was. If Elizabeth spoke of extraordinary sources of happiness, it was not your fortune she was thinking of. And she had _refused_ to say that she _would not_ marry you. A seed of hope deep in your heart begins to sprout, reaching leaves towards the light.

"And what is your purpose in coming here today, Aunt Catherine?" you ask. You have a good idea, of course, but you want her to say it. It is past time to put this issue to rest.

"If you attend that Bingley fellow's wedding," Lady Catherine speaks as though addressing a five-year-old child, "Elizabeth Bennet will doubtless stage a compromise there. Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted? They must not be! I have come to warn you of the schemes of these Bennets, and to demand your word that you will keep your distance from Hertfordshire. It is time to announce your betrothal to Anne."

© 2019 _elag_


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

"No." You do not elaborate, but let the single word stand.

Your aunt blusters: "No? No, you will not go to Hertfordshire?"

"No, Aunt Catherine. I _will_ go to Hertfordshire. I fully intend to stand up with my friend Bingley at his wedding. I mean: no, I _will not_ marry Anne."

It is actually amusing to watch her flounder. For once she does not know what to say.

After a minute of silence, you take the opportunity to elaborate in a kinder tone: "I know it has long been a wish of yours, and perhaps it was also something my mother hoped for, though she never mentioned it to me or to my father. But it is not _my_ wish, nor, should you bother to ask her, Anne's. I will not marry her to please you. I will not marry her to unite our great estates. I will not marry her to meet society's expectations. I will not marry her. Anne will _never_ be my wife."

Your aunt stands and gathers her dignity about herself like a cloak before raising her chin and declaring, "I am most seriously displeased. You are a great disappointment to me, Fitzwilliam Darcy. You do not deserve Anne, and she will be better off without you." She strikes the floor once with her walking stick, turns and leaves.

Well, you think, that could have gone better. But then again, perhaps not. Perhaps nothing less than such bald rudeness could have finally convinced Lady Catherine to abandon her demand for you to wed her daughter. But you have no attention to spare for your aunt: your mind spins back to what Elizabeth said. _'Why may I not accept him?' 'Extraordinary sources of happiness'_. Your new sprout of hope is already growing vigorously, twisting and weaving its tendrils through your whole frame. It is too late to travel today, but you arrange for your carriage to be ready at dawn to take you back to Netherfield Park.

Arriving before ten the next morning, you are able to join Bingley on his daily visit to Longbourn. All the ladies are assembled in the parlour. Bingley, who wants to be alone with his Jane, immediately proposes their all walking out, which is agreed to. Thankfully, Mrs Bennet and Mary both beg off, leaving you to walk in company with Elizabeth and the younger sister, Kitty. In passing you note that Kitty is far less irritating than she had been when in company with Lydia. Still, when she asks Elizabeth's permission to visit a friend at Lucas Lodge, you do not regret her going. You do not regret it at all, as it leaves you alone with Elizabeth: Bingley and Jane have long since wandered off by themselves.

You have not walked more than a few paces beyond the path to Lucas Lodge before the bewitching woman at your side speaks up. She knows all about your role in rescuing her youngest sister and arranging her marriage to that cad Wickham! She is trying to thank you on behalf of all her family, although apparently she is the only one who knows. You cannot bear to hear words of gratitude when it is words of an infinitely more dear nature you are longing for, so you interrupt.

"If you _will_ thank me, let it be for yourself alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your _family_ owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of _you_."

There is no response to this declaration other than a heightening of the colour in her cheeks. After a short pause, you find the courage to add, "You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. _My_ affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever."

You wait, holding your breath, your whole life in the balance of this one moment. The lady is merciful: you do not have to wait long.

"My feelings … " she begins, "my feelings are so very different. In fact, they are the opposite from what I felt then. I have long since regretted my intemperate words, but even more, have learned to regret refusing the hand of the best man I know. It seemed too much to hope that you might ever offer again after such a rejection. I am glad that you have - indeed, I am _very_ happy to receive your present assurances, for I find I now suffer a powerful affection for you."

A powerful affection? Can this mean what you hope? Can it be true?

"Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth," you murmur, not caring that you are gushing like … well, like Bingley speaking to his Jane, "I hope that neither of us need suffer any longer for our affections. Let us speak plainly so that there can be no more misunderstandings between us." You _would_ have got down on one knee, you tell yourself, if you were not standing in a quite muddy lane, with a curious farmer looking on. As it was, a standing proposal would have to do. "I love you, most ardently. It is a love that has withstood trials and tribulations, growing only stronger and more certain. If you feel one tenth as much for me, I beg you to end my suffering and say you will be my wife."

"I will," she says, meeting your intense gaze with a tremulous smile.

The happiness this reply produces is such as you have never felt before, and suddenly it is the most romantic setting you can imagine: the mud at your feet is forgotten; the farmer standing by his cart horses is part of an idyllic rustic backdrop; you are certain there are birds singing in that tree… and at the heart of it all is this magical moment: Elizabeth Bennet has accepted your proposal!

This surpasses all your memories of her: here, now, standing in front of you, face upturned and fine eyes sparkling in the bright morning light, saying yes. _This_ is the moment. You fix every detail in your mind, carefully wrapped in silk and tied with ribbon to keep for ever, unaware that as you do so, an expression of heartfelt delight diffuses over your face, an image that is just as carefully tucked away into the treasured memories of your beloved.

_The end._

© 2019 _elag_

**Author's Note:** _So here you are at the end of the tale. With luck, you have enjoyed Darcy's point of view. The author thanks you for your patience and all your reviews: you have been, as always, helpful, thoughtful, encouraging and supportive. She will be back when the muse strikes again, though she doubts she will attempt a second person tale again any time soon. If you follow elag as an author, you will get an alert next time she posts. In the meantime, you will find countless other tales to enjoy from all her fellow authors. FanFiction's Pride and Prejudice collection really is a treasure trove._


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